


Nothing That I Lov'd So Well

by Nokomis



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternative Universe - Gothic, Gothic, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Waycest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young gentleman Peter Wentz visits his close companion Michael Way’s country home, where things are not quite as they appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing That I Lov'd So Well

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Pearlo in the Waysplusone exchange.

It was a dreary journey, tedious and lengthy, to the ancestral home of the family Way. Pete spent the majority of the time tapping his foot impatiently, gazing out at the grey, foreboding landscape and doing his best to ignore the other passengers of the coach. His father had refused to send a private coach so far into the ‘desolate wasteland of the countryside, Peter, think about how your friendship with _that family_ reflects on our standing,’ which was why Pete was now elbow-to-elbow with a dusty, ancient schoolmaster who kept snorting in his sleep.

His father’s proclamation had, of course, only managed to drive Pete into a public passenger coach all the more quickly, determined to see young Michael Way again, certain that the first bloom of friendship between them was both genuine and more true than any of Pete’s city acquaintances. 

Pete had met Mikey – he preferred his childhood nickname, despite being past the age of majority – at one of Pete’s mother’s stilted, dull fêtes. It had been held in the garden, and Pete had discovered Mikey standing stiffly next to a cluster of bluebells, holding his hat and surveying the party as though he’d never seen one before.

“Doesn’t your mother entertain?” Pete had asked, crinkling his nose at the clusters of ladies and gentlemen having mild-mannered, polite conversation.

“No,” Mikey had replied, lips twisted wryly. “We don’t get many visitors.”

Pete had sighed. “That sounds _delightful_. We always have guests, and most of them are dull and judgmental.” 

“Like me?” Mikey had asked, and Pete had laughed and laughed.

Pete had latched onto Michael Way for the rest of his London stay, and when he’d left Mikey had invited him to stay at his home.

Pete hadn’t hesitated when he accepted the invitation.

*

Mikey had promised a horse, but none were tethered at the waiting post, so Pete made his way down the lane by foot. It was muddy and slow-going, as Pete had to keep pausing to scrape gobs of mud off his boots. 

By the time the Way house became visible through the fog and mist, Pete was positively bedraggled. He could feel the mud on his cheek, his hat felt limp and his clothes were filthy. He looked down, seeing the hopelessness of achieving any measure of cleanliness, and headed down the lane.

The house itself was both larger than he’d expected from Mikey’s means and more run-down. He could see that the gardens were overrun with weeds, that there were missing slates from the roof, that a few windows had been boarded up when the shutters had fallen, and that there was a general sense that the house was neglected and unoccupied, as though the foundation itself was ready to heave a sigh and give in.

Pete glanced back down the lane, but the highway had disappeared from view an hour ago. He took a deep breath, hoping that he’d gotten the directions right, and knocked on the door.

The doorknocker was shaped like a gargoyle. It glared at Pete as he stood waiting, hat clutched in his hand. He spent several minutes staring it in the eye until he heard the steady click of footsteps on the other side. There was a pause, and a slow scraping sound like something was being pulled away from the door, and then the door creaked open.

A woman dressed piously in black eyeballed him. Her hair was shockingly white, despite the fact that she looked no older than his own mother.

“Hello,” he said with a short bow. “I’m Peter Wentz. I was invited by Michael Way?”

The woman nodded. “He said to expect you. Come on in, then, you’re letting in the chill.”

Pete followed her inside. The house was falling into disrepair, that much was evident, though underneath the dust and debris the structure seemed to have been elegant once. There were paintings hanging everywhere; darkly intimidating things in blacks and grays and reds, a far cry from the gentle pastoral scenes his mother favored in art.

“Mikey!” yelled the woman up the stairs. Pete startled; none of the ladies of his house yelled in such a manner. “Your friend is here!”

Pete was used to being the one who _broke_ social convention, and he suddenly had a greater appreciation for the awkward position he put others in when he refused to politely introduce himself or said outlandish things just for the hell of it.

There was scuffling upstairs – it sounded like more noise than coltish Mikey Way could manage – and soon after Mikey appeared at the top of the stairs. He grinned, wide and un-self-consciously, and hurried down the steps, greeting Pete as he came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.

Pete was still off-kilter as Mikey introduced the lady who’d opened the door as his mother. He politely bowed before Mikey lead him towards the stairs to get settled.

*

Pete’s room was large but dark, with both windows closed off and only the slightest bit of natural light shining in. On a sunny day it might be livable, but those were few and far between.

Mikey quirked his lip at Pete. “Trust me, the others are in far worse condition. This one’s the cleanest of the guest rooms.”

“Oh,” Pete said. He looked around. “The bed looks comfortable.”

Mikey nodded in agreement.

Dinner that night was uncomfortable and stilted, but Mikey smiled at him and Pete was glad he’d come.

*

It was dark.

Pete should have been asleep hours ago, but he’s never been able to fall asleep with any sort of ease, and instead he’s sitting at the rickety writing desk in the corner of his room, positioned to get sunlight during the day, probably, but currently doing little more than collecting all the shadows that lurk in the room.

The lamp’s flame was low, too low to comfortably read by, and there was so little oil left in it that he didn’t dare turn it up for fear of spending the rest of the night in blackness. So he continued scratching at his journal the best he can, knowing that in the morning the lines are going to be jagged and crooked and likely will have bled together, and the thought pleased him.

Every old house has its own quirks and noises. Personalities, his father always said. There was something unsettling about this one, however. 

The way the creaks sound more like footsteps than anything else, shuffling creaking sounds like things being dragged… Pete scribbled more and more outlandish lines in his journal, theorizing about infestations and spirits and girls secreted away in the attic.

He felt like he was living in a penny dreadful, and it thrilled him.

*

Pete jolted awake.

He didn’t recall falling asleep, but his cheek was pressed to his still-open journal and his back was sore from his hunched position. He sat up slowly, peering through the darkness to try and discern what had disturbed him.

He fumbled with the lamp for a moment before remembering how low it had been on oil earlier, and realized it had burned itself out during the night. A glance at the window showed only uninterrupted darkness. There was nary a star or a lantern in sight, and Pete felt unease. He was used to the city, where no matter how dark things got in your own mind, there were always people and light and the sound of horses clomping past to reassure him that he wasn’t alone.

The countryside offered no such reassurance.

He stumbled his way to his bed, thinking that he would at least sleep in comfort this time, when he heard the noise again.

It was muffled and Pete couldn’t make out whether it was a voice or something perhaps falling, or the wind knocking something against the outside of the house. He felt the coverlet under his hand and thought about climbing into bed and waiting, listening for more noises, and the thought reminded him too much of childhood night terrors.

He made his way to the door and pushed it open just a crack, just wide enough to see a sliver of the corridor.

There was a lamp burning at the end of the hall, casting a circle of light on the worn rug. Someone must be about; the Ways clearly weren’t spendthrifts. 

Pete creaked the door open a fraction wider, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mikey or Lady Way to inquire after more oil for his lamp. He was wide awake, and knew it would be hours before he drifted off again.

There was a creaking sound and Pete instinctively gripped tighter to the doorknob, except it wasn’t his door making the noise. There was someone else up, and Pete was about to step into the hallway when he saw their shadow cast against the rug, back-lit by the lamplight.

This person was much stockier than Mikey and indisputably male from the dress. Pete wracked his brain, trying to recall Mikey mentioning a servant or another houseguest, but to no avail – the Ways kept to themselves. From Lady Way’s demeanor when she’d served Pete a late dinner, he was the first stranger to grace the halls of this house in at least months, perhaps _years_.

Pete considered confronting the man, but the shadow was gone. Pete peered out into the hallway, but all the doors were firmly shut, and there was no sign of disturbance.

Pete eased his own door shut, feeling unsettled.

*

At breakfast, Pete tried to inquire as to whether there was anyone else staying at the house.

“It just seems lonely,” he said before realizing how rude he was being. “Not having any respite from each other’s company. I’ve never been one for the solitary lifestyle.”

“It suits us,” Lady Way informed him. “Was your night restful?”

“I’m a fitful sleeper,” Pete says honestly. “But I thought I saw something odd. A man, walking down the hallway.”

“Were you up and about?” Lady Way asked Mikey.

“Didn’t leave my room once,” Mikey said amicably. “Must have been a dream, friend.”

“It didn’t feel like a dream,” Pete replied.

“Oh, those are the best sort!” Lady Way said, unhindered by Pete’s skepticism. Lady Way launched into a slightly scandalous retelling of one of her own dreams, and Pete stared at Mikey.

Mikey kept his eyes downcast, refusing to meet Pete’s stare.

Mikey knew something, Pete was certain of it.

*

“You invited someone else, didn’t you?” Pete demanded as soon as he and Mikey were alone, obstinately checking the progress in the greenhouse. The air was muggy and the plants half-wilted, and the glass panes were fogged enough to obscure the outside world. It could have been the end of the world outside and Pete wouldn’t even know.

“What? No!” Mikey protested just a hair too late. 

“Someone you didn’t even let your mother know about. What, is it some poor waif from the docks?” Pete hadn’t even realized how jealous he was until Mikey had all but confessed that Pete wasn’t the only one he cared enough about to invite to his home.

“It is nothing like that,” Mikey said firmly. He took Pete’s hand and pressed it to his chest. “Cross my heart.”

“Then what is it?” Pete asked quietly. This was the most contact they’d had since London, and Pete could feel his own heart thumping loudly in his chest, loudly enough that he was certain Mikey could hear it.

“I can’t say,” Mikey said quietly. He tangled their fingers together. “Can we please not let it ruin our time together?”

Pete leaned in close, pressing his forehead to Mikey’s. “I can’t promise that, since I don’t know what secret you’re keeping.”

Mikey’s eyes were dark, very dark, and for the briefest of moments Pete could only remember that time at the pub, when they’d both had far too much brandy and had stumbled down the street, arms wrapped around each other for balance, and Mikey’s hands had slipped down, down, until Pete had pushed him into his mother’s rose garden and had pressed against Mikey, pressed his mouth hard against Mikey’s.

The thought of that moment between them, that reckless, glorious moment, made Pete flush, feel uncomfortable and embarrassed and most importantly feel that if he didn’t kiss Mikey right now, right this moment, that everything would come crashing down around them.

He tightened his grip on Mikey’s hand and softly pressed his lips against Mikey’s.

Mikey’s chest was hot beneath his hand and he was _kissing_ him, all wet heat and the overwhelming sense of Mikey all around him, and Pete felt like he was both on fire and completely _at home_ , like this was where he was supposed to be.

There was a clatter and a crash, and Pete jerked away. He looked around the greenhouse but there was no one there.

There was a shattered flowerpot near the entrance.

“Who was there?” Pete asked, panicked. “Was that your mother?”

There was a sick feeling in Pete’s stomach, like he’d just thrown away his entire future for the sake of one kiss.

“Nothing,” Mikey said distantly. “Just a cat.”

Pete hadn’t seen any cats. “A cat?”

Mikey nodded. He’d let go of Pete’s hand, and he was staring at the doorway, his brow furrowed worriedly.

“I have to go,” Pete said. He was too frazzled to come up with an excuse, so he just left Mikey standing alone amidst the greenery.

*

Pete stayed in the parlor – dusty and obviously rarely used, much like most of the house – for the rest of the afternoon, composing letters to his friends back home and attempting to read what he’d written in his diary the night before. Nothing in it indicated that seeing the shadow had been a dream. He squinted at the last things he’d written before retiring.

They were smudged – he recalled falling asleep on his journal -- and was his typical recounting of night fears. _scritching scratching noises in the dark. forgotten girls in the attic, wasting away in dust and shadows. there’s someone up there, someone who has forgotten what the light looks like. I want to know what they feel._

He hadn’t written anything after the sighting because the lamp had burned out. He squinted at the page, willing it to release the secrets of that night. Pete was certain he’d seen what he thought. Mikey hadn’t truly denied there was someone else within the halls of the house of Way. 

It was time to go exploring. If someone else was here, there would be evidence of it. For one thing, it was nearly time for dinner, and most people needed to eat. Unless of course the house was haunted, in which case he would book the first carriage back to London and take Mikey with him, away from this terrible place.

It was really no wonder that Mikey was as pale and thin as he was. He was practically a ghost himself. 

Pete had seen most of the ground floor already, so he went upstairs. It was immediately evident which rooms were in regular use; Lady Way’s suite’s door had polished doorknobs and the carpets were more worn in front of her and Mikey’s rooms.

The guest room was clearly normally neglected, and as Pete went further down the hall the paintings on the wall – the same twisting, dark images that haunted the artwork downstairs -- were covered in a thick layer of dust, and cobwebs clung stubbornly to their corners.

There was a window at the end of the hallway, and Pete went to peer out of it. The day was just as grey and dreary as the day he’d arrived.

To the right of the window was a narrow staircase. Pete hadn’t even known it was there until he was right up on it. Pete glanced back over his shoulder. He was still alone.

He started up the stairs. He could hear something drifting down to him. It sounded like voices, slightly raised and distressed sounding. Pete froze.

He recognized one of the voices. It was definitely Mikey. But the other voice was undoubtedly male.

The mysterious stranger from the other night. It had to be. 

Pete had to see who it was, and had to hear what Mikey was saying. If Mikey really did have a lover secreted away. Pete wasn’t sure what else to do. He crept higher up the stairs until the voices became clear.

“You know how dangerous it is,” the stranger was saying.

Pete stared at the dark wall keeping them out of sight, willing it to become transparent. It did not comply.

“How is it dangerous?” Mikey replied. “I’ve asked a friend to visit. It’s normal.”

“A friend,” the stranger said quietly. Pete had to strain to hear him. “I saw what sort of friendship you have.”

There was a long pause. Pete kept his eyes glued to the darkness ahead of him, wondering if someone was going to come charging out and discover him eavesdropping.

“Are you jealous?” Mikey finally said, voice incredulous. “God, Gerard, you _know_ \--“

“I know you haven’t been the same since you got back from London.” Gerard – whoever he was – sounded more melancholy than angry.

“Oh,” Mikey said quietly, like he understood everything Gerard hadn’t vocalized. Pete felt a stab of jealousy and wondered who this stranger was that Mikey would know him so well. “I would never leave you. Never.”

“But you have to,” Gerard replied. “Mikey, you can’t stay holed up here forever.”

“If you can, so can I,” said Mikey staunchly. 

Silence and Pete could make out a rustling sound. He couldn’t suppress the jealousy, and it was all that he could do to not burst in the room and steal Mikey away. 

There were secrets to be learned. He slipped back down the stairs before he was caught.

*

Dinner that night was a lavish affair. Unlike the previous meals Pete had been served, this one featured several courses and a rich, potent wine that Lady Way poured into his glass with a heavy hand.

Pete kept staring at Mikey, trying to figure out what the strange conversation he’d overheard could possibly have meant. Mikey himself seemed even more reticent than usual, something that alarmed Pete. He recalled that they hadn’t precisely parted on the best of terms, and with the new knowledge of Mikey’s _Gerard_ secreted away in the upstairs servant’s quarters left an ill feeling in Pete’s stomach.

His glass kept getting refilled by Lady Way, who smiled broadly and talked of plays she’d seen in her youth, and Pete felt dizzy, dizzy, dizzy as he tried to focus on the words. The candles seemed brighter than usual, and the air was thick and perfumed.

Pete tried to concentrate on his meal, tried to do more than clumsily lift his glass to his mouth, but to no avail. Lady Way kept talking, and it faded to a soft drone, and Pete tried to ask Mikey something, anything, everything but the room felt warmer and warmer and his eyelids heavier and heavier.

*

It was dark.

Too dark, and Pete realized his eyes were still shut. He managed to pry one open, then another, but it didn’t make much of a difference. The room was shadowy and unfamiliar, with thick drapes covering the darker square of the window. He didn’t recall leaving the dining room, and it seemed as though he had a hazy memory of being carried up stairs.

He could still taste the wine in his mouth, bitter and stale, and he wanted to moan, to roll over and hide his head under the pillow, _anything_ , but he realized he wasn’t alone.

Someone was sitting in a chair near the window. A man, that much Pete knew for sure, and it wasn’t Mikey. He listened, but could hear no other sounds to indicate that Mikey was in the room as well.

“You’re not awake. Not really.”

Pete flinched, startled, then willed himself to remain motionless.

“You won’t remember this, I know you won’t,” the man said, and Pete’s muddled brain realized this was Gerard. “But stay away from Mikey. He’s fragile and I won’t let some philandering jackass break his heart.”

Pete tried to protest this but all that came out was a groan. His limbs felt heavy and he felt a momentary panic thinking the wine might have been poisoned. He recalled the menacing way Lady Way’s rings had glittered as she’d poured his wine and it seemed horribly plausible he was paralyzed and dying in a strange boudoir in a decaying country manor.

“He doesn’t need you complicating things,” Gerard said. “Leave this place as soon as you wake.”

Pete felt relief at the implication that he would wake from this, that there wasn’t poison coursing through his veins, that he would be _himself_ again.

Gerard stood, and Pete’s heart stuttered in his chest as he approached. He couldn’t seem much of him in the dark – the impression of a long tangle of hair, ghostly pale skin and wide dark eyes – even when he was close, even when he was leaning in so close that Pete could feel the heat of his breath against his skin.

A fingertip trailed across Pete’s cheek, down his neck to toy with his shirt collar, and Pete felt the tingling ghost of that caress even as Gerard said, quietly, absently, “I understand why, but he’s _mine_.”

Pete’s eyes fluttered shut and he concentrated on his breathing, on everything but this strange man, and he felt the brush of Gerard against him as he moved away from the bed.

Pete heard the soft click of the door and knew that Gerard had left him alone. He wondered who, exactly, Gerard was, that he would be so concerned about Mikey’s heart, as he drifted back into a thick, strange sleep.

*

When Pete drifted back into consciousness, light was pouring in the window.

He blinked blearily, already unaccustomed to bright light, and tried to place his surroundings. There was a wing chair by the window – it seemed as though that had been significant – and a small table holding a stack of books. 

There was something lingering in the back of his mind, something _important_ , but Pete couldn’t concentrate on that because he wasn’t alone in this bed.

He flipped over – easily, why was that a surprise? – and there was Mikey, curled in on himself, cheek pressed into his pillow and hand fisted into the coverlet. Pete didn’t know what to do, so he just watched Mikey sleep. Pete was fascinated by the rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his eyes fluttered slightly as he dreamt, the disarray of his hair.

When Mikey stirred, Pete smiled and said, “Good morning.”

“Or good midday,” Mikey mumbled, squinting at the sunlight. “I fear we’ve slept the day away.”

“Mmm,” Pete agreed. “About that. I don’t actually remember how…”

“How you ended up in my bed?” Mikey asked, voice hoarse from sleep. 

Pete flushed.

Mikey laughed. “How much did you have to drink last night? You were here when I came up. I would think you had nefarious plans for me, but you were passed out.”

Pete didn’t know what to say to that. He had no recollection whatsoever of coming to Mikey’s room.

“But, so long as you’re here…” Mikey said, and trailed a hand along Pete’s cheek, down his neck, and toyed with the rumpled collar of his shirt.

A chill went through Pete’s spine. He couldn’t explain it, but there was something familiar about that caress. Like he should be remembering something…

Mikey leaned in and pressed his lips against Pete’s, and Pete pushed all sense of foreboding away in favor of a far more pleasurable pursuit.

Mikey was bold and sure in his ministrations, and Pete soon lost any uncertainty he’d had. Instead he focused on the overwhelming sense of _Mikey_ all around him- what he tasted like, the way his skin felt, the patterns Mikey drew on Pete’s skin.

It was overwhelming, and at certain points Pete was certain he understood the sublime. He glanced up, Mikey on top of him, pressing hard against him, and he thought he saw…

By the armoire, he thought he saw a doorway, and standing in it, a figure. But that was impossible. Impossible!

Mikey sucked hard on Pete’s neck and Pete’s eyes rolled shut, his hips bucked forward and he momentarily forgot that the world existed, that anything existed outside the two of them, and when his eyes fluttered open and his head rolled languidly to the side, he saw that beside the armoire was just a wall, nondescript and uninterrupted.

It was enough to cut into his pleasure, enough to distract him from the way Mikey’s hips stuttered one last time against his own, the way that Mikey slumped down onto him with a moan, the way the sunlight lit Mikey’s bared skin.

Pete thought again of the wine he’d consumed, and thought he probably was still battling its effects. He nuzzled close to Mikey and let the dreams come.

*

When he woke, Mikey was gone.

Pete climbed out of bed warily. So far very few of his awakenings at the Way home had been pleasant, last one notwithstanding, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for what the afternoon would bring.

His stomach was giving him firm reminders that he’d not yet had a meal, however, so Pete really had no choice but to face the day. He wished that Mikey were here, because he already missed him with a strange pang that he’d never quite felt before.

In the dining room, a cold lunch was set out. There was no indication that anyone but Pete had taken any, but he ate ravenously, enjoying every bite. It felt like he was waking after sleepwalking through several days, and he needed strength to face the day.

He saw no sign of Mikey as he left the dining room. He found Lady Way in the library, settled on a chaise and reading a novel. She shook her head when he asked if she’d seen Mikey, and asking about the mysterious Gerard was on the tip of his tongue when he noticed the portrait over the fireplace.

It was of two boys, uncomfortable in formal wear, staring stiffly at the viewer. The older child was a chiaroscuro, all milk-white skin and jet-black hair, but the younger child was immediately familiar to Pete, from his knobby, in-turned knees to the set of his narrow chin.

“I didn’t know Mikey had a brother,” he said instead.

Lady Way nodded. “My elder son, Gerard. He’s off at the continent.” Her words were deliberately casual, a well-practiced answer.

Pete nodded. “I think I’m going to return to my room. I have letters to write.”

Lady Way bid him well, and Pete hurried upstairs. He went to his room first, to take a deep breath and try to organize the thoughts twisting and writhing through his head like a pit of vipers.

Gerard was Mikey’s _brother_ , not anything more. But the pieces didn’t all quite fit, and Pete thought of that hazy dream he thought he’d had, the one where Gerard had claimed Mikey as his own, and wondered if he was going mad.

If perhaps the Ways were all mad. 

Pete thought of Mikey, and knew deep in his heart that Mikey couldn’t be mad, couldn’t be some twisted lost dark thing. Mikey was _his_ and Pete thought of greenhouse kisses and the way Mikey’s shoulder had looked in the sunlight and his _laugh_.

Pete was the one who was unhinged; Pete was the one thinking strange dark thoughts about the muffled sound of rustling clothes and the possessive tone in Gerard’s voice and that strange moment of voyeurism.

Pete paced back and forth, back and forth, until he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, worrying about every nuance of everything Mikey had said, worrying about things he might have dreamt, worrying about his newfound happiness and how it might all come crashing down.

Pete took a deep breath. He had to go find Mikey. Mikey would reassure him just by _being_.

Pete checked Mikey’s room again, but it was empty. He crept in, feeling strangely like he was trespassing, and went straight for the wall next to the armoire. At first it appeared perfectly normal and Pete was halfway convinced he was hallucinating, but then he noticed the slightest seam in the wallpaper.

He felt around until he felt a raised notch, which he pressed. The panel swung open, and Pete crept inside. 

It was a narrow hallway, and halfway down there was a roughshod staircase. Pete recalled the conversation he’d overheard in the stairwell to the servant’s quarters, and climbed the staircase, wincing at each creak and groan, certain he was going to fall to a very embarrassing death.

At the top was a door, narrow enough that Pete supposed it was originally a dumbwaiter that got expanded to accommodate whoever had built this secret passageway. He eased the door open just enough to see inside.

There were cloths draped over furniture, and half-finished paintings leaning against most surfaces. Pete could see enough to recognize the style; it was the same art that adorned the walls downstairs. He eased the door open more, and drew in a breath.

Gerard and Mikey stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around each other. Pete couldn’t tell the nature of the embrace, just that Mikey’s head was resting on Gerard’s shoulder, and they were close enough to only form one shadow on the wall behind them.

“I love you too much for that,” Mikey was saying quietly, in this quiet broken voice that sent a sharp pain straight to Pete’s heart.

“And I love you too much to keep you here,” Gerard mumbled. “Mikey, you deserve more than this place. Don’t let yourself rot along with me.”

“It’s not rotting,” Mikey said. “You’re my brother, and you mean more to me than anyone. I can’t leave you alone here. It’s not fair.”

“Nothing about life is fair,” Gerard said. He took a step back. “It’s not your fault I ran, Mikey. It’s my own goddamn fault. You can’t drag yourself down with me.”

“It was supposed to be me that went into the service,” Mikey protested. “I’m the younger son.”

“It took Dad, and you wouldn’t have fared much better,” Gerard said. Pete had to agree, Mikey was the sort of man who simply wasn’t designed for the military. And an AWOL soldier… it explained why they made no reference to Gerard. 

It explained so much, except for what bothered Pete the most. He willed them to clarify, to prove that they were just brothers, that Gerard’s jealousy had been solely caused by the threat of loneliness if Mikey left.

Mikey stepped forward and touched Gerard’s jaw. “I would have been fine.”

Pete shook his head at the same time Gerard said, “No, you wouldn’t have. And you aren’t allowed to feel guilty about my decisions, Mikey. You just aren’t.”

Mikey’s hand slipped as Gerard turned his head, and Pete thinks he kissed Mikey’s palm. 

“I never liked society anyway,” Gerard mumbled, “that was always what you enjoyed. It’s why I wanted you to visit London.”

“And why you’re so scared I’ll leave,” Mikey said.

“You let him in,” Gerard said. 

“You’d like him,” Mikey promised. “He’d understand.”

“No one does,” Gerard argued, turning to his easel. Deliberately turning his back on Mikey. “Mikey…”

Pete leaned in, because Gerard’s voice was harder to hear when he was turned away, and instead he tumbled into the room.

“Fuck!”

Pete wasn’t even sure which brother had spoken; he was too busy trying to climb to his feet .

“What are you doing here?” Mikey’s voice was low. Pete stared at him, unsure how to deal with Mikey when he was angry. 

“I... there… I saw you,” Pete said finally, staring at Gerard. “Earlier, I saw you, and I thought I was going mad.”

Gerard looked down. Away. 

“Saw him when?” Mikey asked. 

“During… this morning,” Pete said. Mikey hadn’t known about that, but he didn’t look… he didn’t look surprised.

He glared at his brother, though. “I thought you were staying out of sight.”

“I thought _you_ were staying aloof,” Gerard shot back.

“I won’t keep you from your brother,” Pete said. 

Gerard looked at him sharply. “But you will.”

Pete stepped in closer. “No, I won’t,” and did the only thing he could think of to show that he got what was going on, that he understood the complexities of the situation. He kissed Gerard, and heard Mikey’s sharp intake of breath behind him.

The kiss was hungry and a little desperate, like Gerard was trying to memorize Pete’s taste, like he was trying to experience everything Mikey experienced.

When they broke apart, Pete turned to Mikey and said again, “I won’t keep you from your brother.”

This time Mikey understood.


End file.
